


The View from the Veranda

by AliceLiddle, KrisRix



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: 18th Century, Alice wrote this and Kris drew the cover art, Cover Art, Crack Fic, Crack Treated Seriously, LIZ GETS A VERANDA!!!, M/M, The most innocent bodice-ripper you'll ever read, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28005813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceLiddle/pseuds/AliceLiddle, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix
Summary: "I have spent the last five years modifying and expanding my familial home, and while I am quite certain I shall always have a desire to build and change, I am currently convinced that my estate would be the height of perfection, if only it were complimented by a veranda...I have spent my entire life enjoying beautiful things, but in this moment everything else I have ever coveted suddenly seems to pale in comparison to the adonis standing before me.Then, he turns to face me as I walk into the room, and his perfectly plain blue eyes deliver the final blow. Not only do I want a veranda; I want him."
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 11
Kudos: 99





	The View from the Veranda

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fool of a Book Wyrm (Lafeli85)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lafeli85/gifts).



> Liz, my most darling and wonderful friend, you started writing an incredible fic and only asked for one thing: for Simon to have a veranda. I was mean, and said that since he was a relatively poor yeoman farmer living in Virginia in the 1770s he wouldn't even have glass in his windows or a floor that wasn't made of packed dirt, never mind a veranda! You then asked repeatedly for Simon to be allowed to have a veranda, and I continued to be a stickler for historical accuracy.
> 
> However, I love you even more than I love history, and so I wrote you a fic where Baz has Simon build him a veranda (one of our conversations definitely spiraled off into that sort of tangent, however I no longer remember the specifics), and I made it as sexy and bodice-ripper-esque as I possibly could, also per an earlier conversation. Unfortunately, I am one of the most G-rated people in the world, so I don't think I did a very good job making this fic as spicy as I intended for you, but hopefully the sexy history facts will suffice instead.
> 
> Then, I told our spectacular friend Kris about my plan to give this to you, and he asked if he could draw something for it! I said yes in what was simultaneously the most selfish and also selfless moment of my life, and he added a swoon-worthy dime novel cover to this fic.
> 
> We both love you so so so much, and we hope you enjoy! 🖤
> 
> For everyone else reading this - I hope you like it too! It's definitely a niche AU, but I had fun writing it. If you enjoy the legibility, go thank [Amy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterwings/pseuds/waterwings), as she was my fantastic beta once again.
> 
> _A note from KrisRix: LIZ, I adore you, 🖤 You've become such an important part of my life - and not only because you keep my schedule for me! I count myself very lucky to call you my friend. Lots of love to you~_
> 
> And finally, one last note before you read: The term “undertaker”, in the 18th century, does not necessarily have anything to do with deathways. Rather, an undertaker is simply someone who undertakes a job. Many individuals billing themselves as undertakers have a background in woodworking, and it is common to see undertakers as carpenters, wheelwrights, cabinetmakers, or joiners. Although undertakers may occasionally build caskets/coffins and take part in various elements of funerary events, most of the time their work has nothing to do with the deceased.

**Virginia**

**1777**

**Baz**

I am not a man accustomed to enduring want.

There has never been cause for me to languish in need, as the considerable fortunes of my ancestors have kept me in silk and fine fashions with sprawling lands to profit from and to call my own. My estate is considered one of the finest in the colony, and, while I made a study of law to forge my profession, I have also taken care to become a student of architecture, and I believe the grandeur of my house reflects my efforts.

I have spent the last five years modifying and expanding my familial home, and while I am quite certain I shall always have a desire to build and change, I am currently convinced that my estate would be the height of perfection, if only it were complimented by a veranda.

I took what time I could over this intolerable winter to draw up my plans for this new addition to my home, and now that the snow has melted from the sides of my mountain and small purple flowers are pushing their way through the grass, I post an ad in the  _ Gazette _ and await an answer. I have no reason not to build what I please in the manner that I see fit, and I intend to start as soon as possible.

  
  


One week later, my ad is answered in the form of a knock on my door. I’m enjoying a glass of madeira in my office while I complete some of my week’s correspondence, when a young man about my own age is shown into the parlor. I spend a moment lingering just beyond the threshold, taking in the sight before me - bronze curls that were once tied back from his face have now broken loose and twist around his ears, and a line of freckles across his cheek leads me to appreciate his slightly snubbed nose in profile. I have spent my entire life enjoying beautiful things, but in this moment everything else I have ever coveted suddenly seems to pale in comparison to the adonis standing before me.

Then, he turns to face me as I walk into the room, and his perfectly plain blue eyes deliver the final blow. Not only do I want a veranda; I want  _ him _ .

  
  


He tells me that his name is Simon Snow, that he has been working as an undertaker for a few years now, and was apprenticed to a wheelwright. He tells me which of my peers and neighbors he has done work for in the past, and I nod my consent to his skill. He tells me when he can start and what it will cost and how long he expects the work to go on for, and all I can do is nod helplessly, because for the first time in my life, I find myself wanting something I might be unable to have.

  
  


The work does begin, exactly as Mr. Snow promised it would, and while I am privy each day to what I had previously considered my single greatest desire coming to life, I find myself instead writhing with the knowledge that I am going to be disappointed when the veranda is completed, when the very thing I thought I wanted most is given to me in full. So, I do the only sensible thing. 

I delay construction.

“Mr. Snow!” I call, throwing open the front door, having finally decided upon a suit that I believe he will take notice of. “What progress have you to report?”

He emerges from under the partially constructed floor, his riot of curls hanging free about his face and falling victim to the humid air. He has a smile blooming on his face though, despite the heat of the day and the sawdust clinging to his sleeves.

“Good morning sir!” His attempt at a bow is ridiculous and I despise the invisible hand that clenches around my heart. “You can see for yourself, we are ahead of schedule! The bricks will be ready soon, the clamp is almost done, and in the meantime, I have been working on the steps.” He beams up at me, as if nothing brings him more joy than rolling around in the dirt and wood shavings on such a sultry day.

“Very well.” I have no wish for our conversation to end, yet I find my mind suddenly empty, as it so often is when I am in his presence. Each day, I tell myself that I need not give in to such base desires, and I take my time in front of the mirror, not preparing to see my bronze-haired demigod, but rather reassuring my reflection that it is wholly unnecessary to find yet another excuse to linger in such a man’s presence. Neither of us will benefit from such interactions, and yet I am incapable of denying myself. I find myself to be a disappointment, and I find I cannot care.

“Mr. Snow, if you would indulge me, I should like to speak to you further about my plans for this addition.”

I have spoken to him about my plans so often that he must know them better than I, or at the very least, he must find me to be a frightfully obsessive man. And yet he joyfully obliges me once more, following me into the house after making quite a show of pulling himself through an opening in the boards and up onto the partially completed porch. I am certain in that moment that I am being punished for some unknown transgression, as no man should have to suffer through the sort of temptation I find myself exposed to. Simon Snow is only clad in his breeches, stockings, shoes, and shirt, the latter of which is so soaked with sweat that I need not use any part of my imagination to understand the ways in which his muscles move as he lifts himself to stand at my feet. I mentally chastise myself for what I am certain is the twentieth time today, and allow him to follow me inside.

“Snow, I should wish to hear in detail your plans for completing the columns.”

I desperately want to be gentle with him, to invite him to take his ease in the parlor, to speak openly with me in my office, to sit for a meal with me at my table, to… no, best not to address those thoughts. It would be a dangerous thing indeed, to allow myself to have Simon Snow, not least of all because I highly doubt he would consent to the being had. Instead, I tether him at arm’s length while using my sharp tongue to keep him from coming any closer, thus ensuring I remain disappointed.

“The columns, sir?”

His face is flushed, and I observe a small rivulet of sweat as it traces over the edge of his cheek - how I find myself wishing to follow its path with my hand, with my mouth-  _ no _ .

“Yes, Snow, the columns. The very same columns you assured me the bricks were being prepared for no more than five minutes ago? What are your plans for the columns?”

“Well, umm, sir, we, we, that is, I,” He can stutter and stumble his way through a sentence like no one else I have ever encountered, and I despise myself for falling victim to such a poor siren’s call. After a few more minutes of listening to him stutter out an explanation of work I already trust will be performed in a satisfactory manner, I release him once again to attend to the stairs, and then I call for water to be brought out as well. I may be poor at engaging Snow’s affection with my words, but I have allowed myself frequently to be kind in my actions.

The next day, I decide to flaunt my athletic talents, and, as Simon Snow perspires over the lumber that is shaping itself into my new front stairs, I mount my favorite Bay and gallop through the woods, periodically returning to circle the house and ensure that Snow is provided with ample opportunity to observe me. It is while engaged in this exercise that I realize I may perhaps have some cause for hope after all. I do not permit myself to turn while in the saddle to take in Snow’s reaction to my display, but when I eventually choose to dismount and return to the house, I take satisfaction in the way his mouth drops into a pretty  _ O _ , as well as the way his unremarkable blue eyes follow my path. Indulging myself, I incline my head to him as I pass, and for the rest of the day I take great pleasure in reliving the memory of his cheeks growing redder still as he stammered out a distressed greeting. I did not see the hammer slip from his hands, but I heard the dull  _ thunk _ as it hit the ground, and with it, so too did my caution begin to fall.

I am a gentleman. I do not work with my hands for a living. Instead, I choose to take on various legal cases when I am so inclined, yet I need not toil for the sole purpose of increasing my fortune. I serve, without pay and at the cost of my vacant time, as a magistrate for the county. My father before me acted in the same way, and his father before him. Likewise, my mother’s family is similarly wealthy, and I benefited from every luxury imaginable as a child, while simultaneously learning what it means to exist in such a world - to whom much is given, much is expected. I am a gentleman, and as such, at no point should I even allow myself to entertain the barest notion of any sort of romantic engagement with one Mr. Simon Snow.

And yet.

I am a gentleman, and therefore, I am not accustomed to wanting for anything. I have never been denied a single earthly thing, and now, I find myself fully consumed with one singular desire, unable to ever conceive of wishing for anything else from this point on. I want Simon Snow - I want to talk with him, to know his thoughts, to become so intimately acquainted as to call him by his Christian name without pause, simply ‘Simon’; I want to make him laugh, and to provide for him, ensuring that he has all the sustenance he could ever want. More distressingly, I want to touch him, to claim him, to be the only person to ever lay my hands upon him, and I fear I shall perish if I am denied these privileges much longer.

For the first time in my life, I find that I am uncertain in how to proceed. I am quite adept at handling difficult topics with grace, and yet…

Simon Snow drives every thought from my mind, and replaces my well-intentioned sentiments with blue eyes and bronze curls. Any attempt to ask after construction is obstructed with constellations of freckles, and I lose my thoughts while they are only half-formed any time I find myself in his presence. I have become a man at the end of my rope, and frustratingly, the time I have left with Mr. Snow is growing increasingly short, as his competence has ensured that my new veranda is almost complete, two weeks ahead of his initially proposed schedule. I am not a man of rash actions, but some situations require it.

“Mr. Snow! I wish to speak with you a moment.”

“Yes, sir?” Once again, that infernal smile is on his face, and in just his shirtsleeves soaked through with sweat, very little of his body is left obscured. “Is everything alright?”

I give him a long look as the muscles in his back shift while he sets down his tools, then motion for him to follow me into the house--I need not look back to ensure that he does.

“Mr. Snow, I am aware that our time together is almost at an end; that is to say, you have nearly completed the task which I hired you for, and I expect you will soon be departing.”

“Yes, sir?” Confusion colors his countenance, and he is not alone in that feeling. I have no earthly idea where I am intending this conversation to lead.

“However, you mentioned when we first spoke that you expected your work here to last through the beginning of June.”

“Yes, sir, but I assure you, it has been completed properly, I have not been negligent in anything.” His brow wrinkles, and I long to smooth it with a kiss -  _ focus, Basilton _ .

“I do not doubt you. I was simply wondering, have you found any additional work to engage you once you depart from here?”

“No, sir, although I was intending to place another ad in the  _ Gazette _ …”

I allow him to trail off, and then finally find the inspiration I was hoping for.

“Very well then, I should wish to retain you for a little while longer. I have a multitude of other projects that I should wish your hand in, if that is agreeable to you.”

“Of course!” His smile is blinding, his cheeks are flushed, his eyes are bright, and my knees feel weak. “What sort of projects are they?”

I have absolutely no idea.

“Oh, I won’t trouble you with those details right now, I will allow you to finish your work on the veranda first. I merely wished to make certain that you would be agreeable to such an arrangement.”

“I certainly am! Although, erm,” Snow’s entire demeanor suddenly changes, and I cannot imagine what I could have possibly done in the last instant to make him appear so uncomfortable, “If you were intending to make use of any imported goods you should probably order them soon. Or, I could easily find substitutions here in the state!”

Oh no.

How could the universe be so cruel?

‘In the  _ state’ _ ? My darling undertaker is a  _ rebel? _ Simon Snow, the only person to fill my thoughts for last fortnight and then some, truly believes the nonsense that we would all be better off if we  _ weren’t _ part of the most magnificent empire the world has even seen?

I am devastated.

“Fine.” I suddenly want to end this conversation as quickly as possible. I need to remove myself from Snow’s presence before I say something that ruins the meager relationship we have. “No, wait a moment.” I am a constant disappointment to myself. “Do you mean to tell me that you honestly believe the trite nonsense being peddled by those rebels?”

I cannot stop my lip from curling, and Snow draws back, recoiling from my sneer. He is apparently a fighter, though, as he juts out his chin and prepares to give me a piece of his own mind.

“I do believe in our cause. We have been treated unfairly, and remaining tethered to England will only lead to further injustices. The Congress did the right thing in declaring independence, and I support Virginia’s statehood.”

His words are abhorrent to me. I should not find his ardent support of a lost cause so attractive. But this is also the most eloquent I have ever heard Simon Snow sound, and I find myself drawn to his words like a moth to a flame - I hate what he says, but I wish to hear him say more.

Unfortunately for my poor heart, our conversation continues in this fashion for a month. Snow continues to do the work I ask of him (and I am somewhat ashamed to admit to falsifying my needs for certain improvements, but I cannot regret my lies overly much, as they allow me to remain in Snow’s presence), and each day I find myself wandering into his path and engaging him on the subject of the ongoing war.

What is perhaps worse is my fear that he is winning.

“Mr. Pitch, you cannot expect a government on the other side of the ocean to suitably determine what people like me require here in Virginia.”

“Sir, Parliament has proven time and time again that they do not have our best interests at heart. They have passed intolerable taxes, they have deprived us of our rights, and they now fire upon individuals they still consider to be royal subjects. This is not the behavior of a benevolent nation.”

“You of all people should fear British rule, Mr. Pitch. After all, you enjoy a variety of imported goods. I have seen the evidence of that throughout your home, and it has already been proven that Parliament is willing to cut off loyal and innocent subjects of the King from any and all imported wares on the slightest whim. You may have more to lose in this war than I do.”

Simon Snow is a sun existing on earth, he is skilled with his hands, yet slightly bumbling, and he struggles to express himself in anything longer than a stuttered sentence and a twitch of his shoulders, and yet this same man is able to speak as a modern Demosthenes with fiery conviction and not a stumble in sight when defending his rebellious views. I find it intolerable to consider allowing my head to be turned from sensible politics by a pretty face, but each day Simon Snow showers me in reasons to turn from the world I have known and the nation I was born into, and each day I find myself coming closer to accepting the treason he preaches.

By the time July arrives, I have reached the end of my rope. I am tired of non-importation agreements and blockades denying me the fine goods I expect, I am tired of the constant barrage of troop numbers and political drivel every time I open the paper, and I am tired of having to stay my hand every time I wish to follow the lines of Simon Snow’s body, now fully visible by the end of each day when the Virginia air has saturated his clothing to the point of transparency. I cannot help my actions. I do something rash.

“Mr. Snow!”

His curls are flattened and fuzzy in the humidity, and I can make out rivulets of sweat sneaking into his shirt and lower still, even from my perch on my newly completed veranda.

As always, his head pops up and a smile illuminates his features when he hears my voice. “Yes, sir?”

I can see his next argument for independence lurking just behind his teeth, on the tip of his tongue, but that is not what I am interested in. Rather, I am very interested in said teeth and tongue, but I have no interest in discussing politics or war any further.

“Mr. Snow, I will have you know that I find your impertinence horrific.”

His mouth falls open and all traces of playfulness desert him.

“You have, repeatedly, insulted my own opinions and become far more familiar with me than can be considered polite or socially acceptable. You have come into my home and acted with a complete disregard for propriety or my own welfare. You speak daily of injustices, and yet seem unwilling to acknowledge the horrible injustice you yourself inflict.”   
  
“Sir, I-”

He is almost shaking, shocked and confused by what I am saying, but I cannot find nicer words to couch my thoughts in.

“You have slandered my countrymen until I have been given no choice but to turn my mind to your way of thinking, and I am not sure that I can ever forgive you for such a thing. Additionally, you have forced me to suffer daily - without any regard for my own heart or mind, you have had the audacity to smile at me, to stand before me with your ridiculous freckles and your lovely eyes and your damnable curls, and you show no signs of weakening to anything I have yet presented you with!”

I have certainly said too much, I have certainly ruined my reputation, I have certainly condemned myself to miserable solitude for the rest of my life, but  _ then _ -

Snow smiles.

He does not just smile, he positively  _ beams _ at me, and I fear that I may be hallucinating, as I cannot possibly be about to endure anything other than disgust after my monologue. But Simon Snow is apparently a man of many talents. Not only can he create and build, defend and win, he can also surprise me.

“Simon.”

“What?”

“You may call me Simon. If I am as impertinent and informal with you as you claim, then you should also be the same with me. I should like it if you called me Simon.”

For just a moment, some insanity in my mind insists that I will never do such a thing.

“Simon.” I am unable to help myself. His name is like a prayer in my mouth, whispered into the still summer air. “Simon.”

His mouth curls into an almost mischievous grin, and he raises his eyebrows as if waiting for something.

“Simon.” I am helpless to say anything else, although after a moment, I recover. “I suppose, if you are intent on crossing every reasonable line of polite society, then you may call me Baz.” I need to hear my name from his mouth, I need to know what it sounds like when said by the man that I love, what new meaning and devotion could possibly be added to three short letters when said by such a siren?

“Baz…” Spoken slowly, drawn out as if to taste every sound. It is more lovely than I dreamed. “Did you mean what you said?”

“Yes, Simon, every word. I should not have spoken at all, but I cannot deny the truth of my speech.”

He tips his head to the side for just a moment, and I find myself still waiting for the crushing blow to be delivered, despite being sure that he does not mind the expression of my improper thoughts.

“You have truly come to share my views on revolution?”

I laugh.

I may seem like a lunatic, but I am helpless to do anything else.

“I pour out every drop of my soul to you, confessing my affection and flattering you, and all you can speak of is  _ politics _ ?” I am nearly hysterical in my mirth, but everything in this moment is too absurd for anything else.

“Truthfully, you did not flatter me near as much as you attempted to insult me.”

“I shall have to remedy that then. If my words do not serve you, then perhaps my actions will.” And seeing his eyes alight at my implication, I take Simon into my arms.

I intend to kiss him, but he is still the obstinate and improper man I love, and so he ignores my plans and kisses me first.

  
  


I cannot say how long we stayed locked in our embrace on the lawn, only that by the time we separated to draw breath, I found my hands tracing the lines of his torso, and my waistcoat entirely undone. We had only to look at each other to reach a silent agreement, and my bold undertaker, so skilled at creating, took my hand, led me inside, and for once, instead of building anew, skillfully took me apart.


End file.
